Love

It was a gray day in San Francisco when we arrived at the law offices of Stein and Mullin, LLP. My grandmother had just died the week before and the air was stale. There was a feeling of everything moving in slow motion despite the fact that the world was rapidly falling apart. The front desk staff seemed overly happy for the occasion and we were immediately put on guard. Their effervescence, an insult to our pain.

When we were led back to the conference room, we were shortly met by Mr. Stein himself. We weren’t sure if it was normal to meet with one of the partners for a will distribution but didn’t give it much more thought.

Mr. Stein spoke gravely, “My dear Johnson family, I am so sorry to have to see you under these circumstances. Mrs. Johnson was a fine woman.”

My father nodded his thanks.

Mr. Stein continued, “there are individual allotments for all three of you. I have laid out a schedule of distribution and made copies for you to review. My secretary will bring in additional paperwork for you to sign.” Mr. Stein paused and looked directly at me. “I presume you are Alexandra?”

“Yes.”

“If you would follow me to an adjacent room I have a short presentation for you.”

Somewhat confused, I looked up at him. He didn’t await my reply and headed toward the other room which was basically an office. It looked like a space the firm would use for visiting attorneys or other such guests. On the desk was a box. It was about six by nine inches and almost looked Victorian if I had to guess.

“Please, sit.”

I sat down and kept my gaze on the box.

“Your grandmother has left this gift especially for you. Once I have left the room, please open the box. You will find a letter inside. Please take your time examining it. I will be just down the hall.”

He quietly left the room and closed the door behind him.

I didn’t recognize the box, which was odd because I thought I had memorized every detail of my grandmother’s life. Taking a deep breath, I opened the lid. Inside was the letter Mr. Stein mentioned and below it a very large envelope. The letter began:

“My dearest Alexandra. If you are reading this, then I am gone.

In the envelope contained in this box, I am presenting you with a choice I had to make many years ago as a young woman. I will not guide you to an answer except to say follow your heart. You will only be able to pick one of the items I have left for you in the box. I have always seen myself in you, ever since you were a young girl. You have warmed my heart for the last 30 years. I have seen you grow from a beautiful inquisitive child to a strong, fearless young woman. I have no doubt you will be successful in whatever you do. There will be days without me that you will cry and curse God for allowing me to be taken. But, please know that I am in a better place. Without pain and worry. I have loved you with my whole heart and it is so hard to say goodbye. Please know that I am always with you. Love, Grandmother.”

As I read the letter, I cried a loud and painful cry. I soon realized that I was hyperventilating and sobbing at the same time.

One of the secretaries knocked, “Honey, are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said holding back more tears, “I’m fine.”

I looked at the envelope and slowly opened it. Within it were two smaller envelopes. I looked closer. One envelope was bigger than the other. Both were sealed. The larger envelope had the word “Love” written on it in my grandmother’s handwriting. The second, smaller envelope had the word “Money” written on it, also in my grandmother’s handwriting.

I looked closely at the envelopes. From the surface it seemed like an easy choice. Love trumps money. But, did it? I had recently graduated from a private university with a law degree. My parents had paid for my undergraduate education but I needed to take out loans for my advanced degree. The money seemed tempting. Surely, my grandmother knew of my financial problems. I became unsure. Thinking back on my grandmother, though, and the woman she was, I knew I should pick love. But, money...I hesitated again. This was harder than I thought. At that moment, I saw my grandmother’s face, the blue ring around her brown eyes, and reached for the envelope marked “Love.” I opened the envelope. Inside was one item. A leather bound small black notebook. It looked worn from what was most likely years of use. I knew I would not be able to read all of the contents in the office. Almost right on cue, Mr. Stein returned.

“I heard from one of the secretaries that you were having a hard time. Have you selected an envelope?”

“Yes, I chose ‘Love’. I think my grandmother would’ve wanted that.”

“Your grandmother thought very highly of you. She wouldn’t have begrudged you if you had chosen the other envelope.”

“Still,” I said, suddenly tired from the experience, “I think I chose correctly.”

“Well,” he said while removing the envelope marked ‘Money’, “the box is yours. Your grandmother wanted you to have it. More information will no doubt be in the notebook. I’ll show you to your parents, they have signed the paperwork and are waiting for you in the lobby. I will send you home with details of the distribution for you to sign. Simply return it to us in the mail. We have included a stamped envelope.” I stood up, not quite hearing his instructions about the paperwork.

When I arrived in the lobby, my parents were quietly crying. Their eyes were red and my mom’s skin was splotchy with the residue of tears. My Dad looked up at me with his large brown eyes expectantly.

“She left me a box. Inside was a letter and two envelopes. I could only choose one. I chose ‘Love.’” I didn’t say what the other envelope was labeled. It didn’t seem important. We left the law office and headed home.

I headed to my childhood bedroom and sat on the bed. I took the box out of my large purse and set it on the bed. I opened the lid and picked up the notebook, lightly skimming the pages. It was in my grandmother’s handwriting. It was a small notebook and there couldn’t have been more than 100 pages. I decided to read it right then.

The first page was dated December 1, 1939. “Mama didn’t want me coming to Chicago. She says a young country girl from Oklahoma has no business in a big city. ‘Who do you know in Chicago?!’ she said. I told her we knew a few folks who had left Oklahama for Chicago. Surely they could show me around. ‘Well don’t expect them folks to pay you no mind. They likely have families of their own.’ I told her I didn’t know about all that. Seemed to me that everyone from back home took care of each other like family. But, enough about Mama. The big city is so nice. And Black folks aren’t dressed all country like, they look sophisticated and classy. I would write and tell mama but she wouldn’t understand.”

The next entry was dated December 23, 1939. “Mr. Stanley was so kind to me, having me over for dinner. I can’t wait to tell mama that someone from our town had me over and cooked me a nice meal. He told me if I ever need anything to ask him. He said he loved taking care of his folks. He told me about a job at the post office. Because of the war, they’re hiring women. He said his daughter was working there now and could help me get a job.”

January 15, 1940. “I went to see about the post office job. The White lady who interviewed me was kind. She asked if I thought I could sort mail. I said I had raised pigs, chickens and helped my dad with horses, I didn’t see why I couldn’t handle some mail! She seemed to be amused by that. She must have been because I got the job. We are some of the first Black women to work for the United States Postal Service in Chicago.”

After this particular story, I paused with tears in my eyes. My grandmother had told us many times before about working for the post office during World War II but to read her words was different. I could imagine her, a young Black girl from the country, living in the big city. I skipped ahead.

June 4, 1940. “Well, he’s a preacher. Seems kind of boring to me. He asked me why I was smoking them cigarettes, and didn’t I know they were bad for me? Well of course I knew, but all the girls were smoking cigarettes in Chicago. I couldn’t tell him that so I just smiled. Mama would be happy, but I’m not sure. I’ll let him keep calling on me and see what happens.”

December 15, 1940. “We got married at a small church in Chicago. My family couldn’t make it up from Oklahoma but Mr. Stanley came. Clifford wants to move to California. Says there’s a church in Los Angeles that wants him to pastor there. I’m not too excited about moving out there. I hear the women are so casual. Scarves on their head wearing jeans and not skirts. I don’t know about all that!”

I continued to read the different journal entries. My grandmother stopped writing as much after she had her first baby. It made sense. Back then, there were no nannies for young Black mothers. Like most women, they were expected to cook, clean and raise the children.

At the end of the notebook, there were pieces of yellow scratch paper that were clearly recent.

“Granddaughter, this is the first of many journals. Mr. Stein will be delivering the rest to you. At the same time I met your grandfather, I was being courted by another man. He was the one who gave me the beautiful box. He was much younger and had a lot more money. Even though I wasn’t sure about your granddaddy at first, I knew he was a good man of God. I couldn’t see myself introducing the other man to my family. And so, I chose love and not money... Lucky for you, grandma didn’t forget about you. Mr. Stein will also be delivering the other envelope to you. In it is a check for $20,000.00. It’s not a lot but you know me and your granddaddy didn’t have much. I love you.”

I sat on my bed stunned. I had picked love and received both gifts. I smiled. My grandmother loved a good lesson. The gift from my grandmother was love in its purest form. She had shared the stories of her life with me. Her innermost thoughts were mine to treasure. When I chose the envelope marked ‘Love’ my life changed forever. I now had a legacy to share with my own children. And they will always know to pick love. That’s what my grandmother did.